


A Very Vloggy Christmas

by antietamfalls



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Blogging, Bombs, Christmas, Fluff, Gen, John Watson's Blog, Minecraft, Sherlock Secret Santa, Teenagers, Teenlock, Video Cameras, YouTube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:20:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antietamfalls/pseuds/antietamfalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teenaged John starts a Youtube channel. He inevitably drags his best friend Sherlock into the venture, but as Christmas approaches things don't quite go as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Very Vloggy Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> My 2013 Sherlock Secret Santa gift for timelord-of-the-shire!

Microphone noises rustle and the screen comes into focus. A blond-haired teenage boy sits at a desk with his dimly lit bedroom behind him. It’s quite late.

“Hi… uh, everyone. John here.” He waves, slightly awkwardly, and licks his lips. “Finally started my own Youtube channel. I guess you already know that, since you’re… here watching and everything. I’ve sort of been a lurker on Youtube for the past year, but last week I saw this great video and it really made me think… why can’t I do this too?” John smiles. “So this will be a v-log thing, I think. Sherlock says it’s stupid, me doing this, but you know what? He can bugger off because it’s _my_ channel. So… uh… thanks for watching. See you soon.”

He waves again, a little less awkwardly, and the video cuts out.

 

 

* * *

 

John sits at his desk wearing a yellow and red football shirt. The lighting in his bedroom indicates that it’s the afternoon.

“Hi, everyone," John says. "Me again. My last few videos didn’t receive too many hits so I asked Mike and Greg how I could get more viewers, and they told me I needed to make my channel interesting. So I decided to bring on the most interesting person I know.” John looks off screen to the left. “Sherlock! Come here!”

There’s no answer. John seems to be scanning for someone. He looks back at the camera. “Hold on, he’s probably sulking in the loo or something.”

He stands and the camera image flickers. Suddenly John is standing in front of his desk, only his torso and one arm in frame.

“Come on, you said you’d do it just this once,” John says to someone offscreen.

“Then tell your sister to stop throwing Lego at me!” answers a deeper male voice.

John plants his hands on his waist. “She’s _thirteen_. Just pretend she doesn’t exist. That’s what I do, anyway.”

“It’s difficult to ignore her when she’s pelting you with bits of pirate ship. Retaliation was in order. And _she_ started it.”

“Ugh. You’re both so immature. Now come on. The battery’s run low on my camera.”

A loud sigh is heard from offscreen. John sits back down in his chair and rolls it to one side, making room in the frame. A teenage boy with dark curly hair slumps down onto the foot of John’s bed. He’s wearing a white dress shirt with its sleeves rolled up, clearly the remnants of a uniform. His tie is missing and his arms are crossed. He obviously doesn’t want to be there.

John looks excited and slightly smug. “This is my best mate, Sherlock,” he tells the camera, flourishing a hand gesture as if presenting a grand spectacle. “He knows all sorts of cool stuff. Tell our viewers something cool, Sherlock.” John glances expectantly at his friend.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “John, this is dumb.”

“Come on, don’t be a prat.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Fine. Um." His face goes pensive. "A human head stays conscious for fifteen seconds after decapitation.”

John stares at him. “That’s just an urban legend,” he says, after a moment.

“No, it isn’t.”

John shakes his head. “There’s no way someone could know that, Sherlock.”

“They’ve done tests on rats in the Netherlands,” Sherlock says authoritatively. “I read about it.”

“Rats aren’t _people_.”

“The principle is sound, though. It’s easy enough to extrapolate for other vertebrates. The scientists detected electrical impulses in the brains of the rats after beheading them.”

“But they don’t know for _sure_ ,” John reasons.

Sherlock considers this. His eyes widen with curiosity. “Hmm. You’re right.”

“No, you know what? Forget I said that,” John says, suddenly worried. “You’ve got that serial killer look again."

Sherlock smiles deviously. “Are you afraid I’m going to murder someone and run tests on their head?”

“Knowing you, you’d lop off your own head just to find out once and for all.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock mutters, lost in thought. “How would I write down the results?”

John looks into the camera. He’s rather disturbed. “All right, the warning light’s blinking. I best end this recording and charge my camera. If you hear of any missing persons on the news tonight, please direct your inquiries to one Mr. Sherlock Holmes of-“

Sherlock tosses a pillow at John, hitting him in the head and cutting him off. The camera flickers out just as John leaps out of his chair toward Sherlock, pillow in hand and ready to retaliate.

 

 

* * *

 

John’s arms are up as he adjusts the camera. He drops them to reveal he’s wearing a faded AC/DC t-shirt and side by side with Sherlock at his desk. Sherlock is once again in his disheveled white button-down and appears entirely bored.

“Hi, all,” John says cheerfully. “I've got Sherlock here again. Had to bribe him with a trip to the Hunterian Museum. He can’t say no to biological oddities.”

Sherlock snorts. “If I recall correctly, it’s you who wanted to go, John.”

“Only after _you_ told me about it,” John snaps back. “You’re not as tricky as you think. Reverse psychology doesn’t work on me.”

“It works on you all the time.”

“Name _one_ example.”

Sherlock starts counting off finger by finger. “The crutches. The plumbing incident at the library. This past Wednesday at the rugby pitch-”

“All right, all right,” John cuts him off, raising a hand.

“I could go on,” Sherlock offers. “These examples are only from this year.”

John shakes his head. “All right, whatever, we all know you’re a genius. Listen, the only reason you’re even here is because our last video together has the highest hit count of anything on my channel and people keep asking for you to come back.”

“Really?” Sherlock asks. He sits back, genuinely confused. “Why?”

“I think they found you funny.”

“I’m not _funny_.” He looks at John. “Am I funny?”

John shrugs. “Well, yeah. You make me laugh all the time.”

Sherlock doesn’t appear to know how to take this information. John clears his throat and picks up a piece of paper lying on the desk. “Anyway, Mike tagged me with a few questions over on his channel, so I’ve split them between us. We’re going to answer them.”

Sherlock makes a disgusted noise. “I _hate_ Mike’s channel.”

“I bet you haven’t even watched his videos,” John prods.

“I saw the horse head one. I assure you it was more than enough to form an opinion.”

John sighs and examines his list. “Right. First question. Which Hogwarts house would you be sorted into?”

“You’ve got a dangling preposition, John.”

“Ravenclaw it is, then.” John looks up at Sherlock. “I think I’d be in Gryffindor.”

“That’s because you suffer from an idealistic self-image and an uncontrollable martyr complex,” Sherlock tells him.

John glances at the camera with a long-suffering expression. “I change my vote, viewers. Sherlock is a Slytherin. And an arse. Which is one in the same, I suppose.”

Hand at his chin, Sherlock doesn’t seem to be listening. “You’d be the other one.”

John’s brow creases together. “Hufflepuff?” he scoffs. “I’m not a Hufflepuff!”

“Yes, you are.”

“Sherlock, no one in their right mind wants to be a Hufflepuff.”

“But that’s what you are,” Sherlock replies placidly. “Why wouldn’t you want to be what you are?”

“Because it’s a stupid house and I don’t want to be a Hufflepuff!” John nearly shouts.

Sherlock folds his arms. “Fine. Be what you want. It’s not like it’s real or anything.”

“I happen to know you’ve got a pair of Harry Potter glasses buried under your bed somewhere,” John accuses, drawing far too much pleasure as he does it. “I saw them once.”

Sherlock’s cheeks turn a faint shade of pink. He glances away. “Probably from one of Greg’s birthday parties years ago. He thought I looked like Harry. I didn’t buy them.”

“Whatever you say,” John says disbelievingly. He points to the paper in front of Sherlock. “It’s your turn.”

Sherlock looks down. “Favorite Hunger Games character,” he prompts.

“Um… Finnick, I think,” John says contemplatively. “He’s clever and showy, but underneath he’s a lot deeper than he first appears. A true romantic. I like that. Who’s yours?”

“Uh..."

“We _did_ just watch it, you know.”

“Is there a winner? I think I’d pick the winner.”

“I think the whole point of the series is that _no one_ actually wins, Sherlock,” John points out. “It’s terrible and cruel and ruins everyone’s lives.”

Sherlock considers this a moment and then glances at John. “But does someone win?”

John sighs heavily and puts a hand to his forehead. “Katniss, I guess? Maybe Peeta?”

“Is Peeta the one with the bread?”

“Yes, Sherlock.”

“Okay. Peeta.”

John waits but Sherlock doesn’t continue. “Are you going to say why you like him best?” John asks.

Sherlock shrugs. “I don’t know. I just do.”

“All right. Next question goes to the genius.” John looks at his paper. “Nine, Ten, Eleven, or Twelve?”

“Nine, definitely nine,” Sherlock immediately responds. “It’s a perfect square.”

John blinks slowly. “That’s great, Sherlock, but I think this is a Doctor Who question.”

“No, it’s not,” he retorts with supreme self-assurance. “It’s numbers, John.”

“They’re referring to the order of the Doctors.”

Sherlock frowns. “Well, that’s silly.”

“You liked Tennant, didn’t you?” John asks. “The one with the hair?”

“Which one is that? They’ve all got stupid hair.”

John snorts. “Look who’s talking.”

Sherlock’s right hand instantly rises to touch the curly locks at the nape of his neck. “At least my hair doesn’t perpetually look like I've just lost a fight with a lawnmower.”

“At least I know when all the mud’s washed out of _mine_ ,” John snipes.

“That was _one_ time.”

“It was three days before you noticed, Sherlock. Gross.”

“Yeah… well, at least I didn’t get shot down by a girl in front of half my year,” Sherlock says petulantly.

Sherlock's words have clearly struck a nerve, because in an instant John’s eyes go fiery and he launches toward Sherlock with a shout. John body-slams him and they tumble out of frame, fighting and flailing all the way.

The camera flickers and they’re both sitting back in their seats, hair and clothes a little tousled. John is smirking and Sherlock is frowning.

“Now that that’s settled,” John says to the camera, “I think we’ve got a few more of Mike’s questions.”

“You fight dirty. It’s not fair,” Sherlock complains.

John preens. “I won, didn’t I? Maybe you should start playing rugby and learn how.”

Sherlock grumbles to himself.

“Come on, next question,” John says.

Sherlock grudgingly looks at his paper. “Favorite Youtube channel.”

“Oh, that’s easy! For pure entertainment value, I’d choose Greg’s Let’s Play channel.” John looks into the camera. “I’ll put a link below for everyone to check him out. He plays a lot of PC games and we’ve recently started a Minecraft series. We’ve got our own server and everything.”

“Minecraft?” Sherlock asks. An unreadable expression replaces his frown. “Is that why you couldn’t come over last Thursday? You were at Greg’s?”

John rolls his eyes. “It’s kind of a big deal, Sherlock. We were finishing the main fortress.”

Sherlock looks entirely puzzled.

Eyes widening, John stares at him. “Hold on, are you saying you’ve never played Minecraft?”

“No. Why would I?”

John glances at the camera with exaggerated solemnity. “Viewers, this is unacceptable. My mission is clear. Sherlock must be indoctrinated into the ways of Minecraft.”

“Indoc- wait, what are you proposing, John?” comes Sherlock’s perplexed voice before the video ends.

 

 

* * *

 

John has set up his camera at an angle to record Sherlock as he sits at the computer. The screen isn’t visible, only Sherlock at the desk and John in a chair just behind him. Sherlock has his hands on the mouse and keyboard while John points at the computer screen.

“Yeah, that one is our server,” John says. “You’re playing as me so don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Sherlock huffs a laugh as he clicks. “I don’t know, John. I’ve seen you do some rather unintelligent things.”

John playfully swats him on the back of the head. “Arse. Okay, you should be popping in at the main base. It’s not done yet but-“

“These graphics are terrible,” Sherlock interrupts. “Why is everything a cube?”

“That’s just how they made it, Sherlock. It’s more about creativity than looks.”

“What the devil is _that_?”

John squints. “Um, that’s a cow.”

Sherlock clicks a few times. Alarmed mooing resonates from the speakers.

John raises his eyebrows and nods. “Now it’s a dead cow.”

“It vanished and left behind… is that supposed to be a steak?” Sherlock asks, mildly confused.

“Just… just keep going. I want to show you-”

“Is that the fortress?”

John smiles. He’s quite proud. “Yeah, isn’t it great? Greg spent ages on those turrets. And you can’t see it from down here but there’s a massive crystal skylight on top. For stargazing.”

Sherlock watches the screen for a while as he moves the mouse around. “You made all this?”

“Yep! Go into the main hall- yeah, right there. The spiral staircase was my idea, I’ll have you know.”

“It’s actually rather impressive,” Sherlock admits.

“We placed every block, everything you see,” John says smugly. “Ten floors with secret passages between them all and hidden rooms and booby traps for our enemies.”

“Are there enemies in this game?”

“Well, no, since this is creative mode. But every good fortress needs defensive measures, right?”

Sherlock clicks a few times and narrows his eyes. “You’ve got a load of rubbish in your bag.”

“That’s just leftover construction materials.”

“What’s this? A ‘diamond pickaxe’?” He looks at John. “Why would you make a pickaxe out of diamond?”

“It’s really durable,” John explains. “See, there’s a whole bunch of tools made of diamond.”

Sherlock glances back to the screen. “A diamond sword. I suppose that’s durable too. Oh! I can equip it.”

“Yeah, and you can place blocks in the world and create things. There’s some stone there if you want to-” John’s eyes go wide. “No, that’s a _TNT_ block, Sherlock, don’t--”

A muffled chain of explosions goes off from the computer’s speakers. John watches, speechless.

“Oh my God,” Sherlock says. He clicks again, tentatively, and another explosion occurs.

John finally reacts, slamming his hand down on the mouse, over Sherlock’s, and tries to pry it away from him. “Stop laying them!” he shouts.

“I’m trying to unequip it!” Sherlock yells back, struggling against him to retain control. The explosions continue.

The shove at each other. John is red-faced with growing outrage and he’s got his arms around Sherlock, trying to pull him away from the controls. “Christ, why didn’t you just let me teach you how to play properly? ‘ _It’s all right, John, I pick things up really quickly-_ ’”

“You’re just making it worse! Get off me!”

As they wrestle and shout the chair rolls away from the desk. Sherlock loses balance and slides off the seat, John in tow, and they drop out of frame. The keyboard and mouse cords are jerked hard and they fly off the desk and clatter to the floor. A final explosion can be heard, faintly, from the computer.

The video flickers. John is hunched in the chair behind Sherlock with both his hands covering his face. He stares at the computer between his fingers, the very image of horrified disbelief.

Sherlock sits with folded arms, assessing the computer screen and frowning. “Obviously your construction techniques were inferior if I managed to do all _that_ in less than fifteen minutes. I recommend you find a book on architecture before progressing any further.” He looks over. “John?”

“Greg is going to kill me,” John moans. “He’s got a livestream on the server tomorrow and he warned me not to let you on.”

“Well, then this isn’t my fault,” Sherlock points out. “It’s yours.”

“Sherlock,” John says through clenched teeth. “Shut _up_.”

The video flickers again and John is now at the desk chair, clicking rhythmically with a tense expression. Sherlock is behind him in John’s old seat.

“I wasn’t expecting that to be flammable,” Sherlock observes.

John just shakes his head. “It’s wood, Sherlock. Of course it’s flammable.”

“You mean these brown bits? That’s supposed to be _wood_?”

“It would really help if you let me concentrate while I try to block off these lava flows,” John says tetchily.

Sherlock shrugs. “Maybe you shouldn’t have built the fortress on an active volcano?”

John throws up his hands in frustration. “Oh, I’m sorry we didn’t demolish the _entire mountain_ before building on it to check for lava veins! At this rate the whole forest is going to be on fire before I can plug it up.”

Sherlock points. “Oh, but now I can see the skylight,” he remarks brightly.

John drops his forehead onto the desk with a thud. “That’s because you destroyed all the floors in between, you idiot.”

”Well, it’s a very nice skylight,” Sherlock tries.

John looks up at the camera. “I’m so sorry, Greg,” he says. “You were right. And you have my permission to murder him.” He reaches out and the video cuts to black.

 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock and John sit next to each other at the desk once again. It’s evening. John’s wearing a thin green jumper and Sherlock has on a loose t-shirt. Sherlock looks alert and interested, for once.

“Hello, everyone!” John greets. “We’ve got some new viewers since I posted those last two videos. It seems you like it when Sherlock answers questions, because you’ve left a good number in the comments. Shall we get to it?”

“By all means,” Sherlock replies. He glances at computer screen in front of him. “First, the most popular question. What happened with your Minecraft server?”

John sighs. “What a bloody great way to start this off. Uh, Greg wasn’t too happy about Sherlock’s… renovations.”

“He banned you,” Sherlock says, suppressing a grin.

“Yeah, he banned me,” John agrees. “I’m only allowed to play on the server at his house, under his supervision, without Sherlock present. But, we’re rebuilding. The new fortress has begun construction. We’re turning the old site into a memorial observatory, actually, to mark the dark events that happened there.”

“Oh?” Sherlock asks.

John nods. “And we’re naming it after you so that future generations will never forget the horrors you unleashed. The Desolation of Sherlock, we call it.”

“I’m touched. Is that a reference to something?”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t matter. On to the next question.” John clears his throat and reads off the screen. “Sherlock, John called you a genius in a previous video. Is he just full of shit or are you actually that smart?”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and looks to John.

“Rule number one, Sherlock,” John reminds him. “No deducing my viewers.”

“But this one _wants_ it, John. And I don't like the phrasing of their question.”

John appears torn for a moment. “...fine. Nothing too personal, though.”

Sherlock is suddenly bursting with energy as he leans in to examine the message more closely. “Let’s see. LambeauAngel89. Their icon is an animated purple pony wearing a top hat and monocle."

"Of course it is," John sighs.

Several seconds pass as Sherlock analyzes the message. He looks up at the camera. "You’re a jobless twenty-something from the American Midwest who spends his days watching Youtube videos, probably after a disappointing rejection from the only university you applied to in a fit of overconfidence. You masquerade as a female online but it's not, as one might suspect, because of your My Little Pony affiliations nor your prepubescent sense of humor, but because you enjoy the ease of extorting attention-starved men over the internet. I suggest you think on your life choices and enroll in local vocational training. Might I suggest automotive repair?"

He glances at John again. “How was that?”

John looks simultaneously impressed and disapproving. “Crossing the line, but I'll let it slide," he says. "He _was_ rather rude.”

Sherlock frowns. “I suppose we won’t be able to confirm any of that.”

"We don't need to," John replies. "What's the internet for if not soul-crushing intrusion when people think you've done something wrong? If evidence is found against him, he'll probably be hacked and  humiliated before week's end."

"Oh," Sherlock says. "Shall we move on?"

"Okay, but let's not turn this into 'how many lives can Sherlock ruin in one day'," John requests flatly.

Sherlock smirks and locates the next question. “Plans for Christmas?” he reads, then immediately looks up and smiles.

“You want to take this one?” John laughs.

“This is the first year since we’ve known one another that neither of our families is going on holiday for Christmas,” Sherlock says. His grin can’t be contained.

“I imagine we’ll hang around together,” continues John. “Exchange gifts. Watch the Doctor Who Christmas special.”

Sherlock nods. "As soon as I can give my family the slip. I wish I could see Mycroft's face when he finds me gone."

"You should spend _some_ time with them," John says concernedly.

"Why?"

"They're your family."

"But they're not my _whole_ family," Sherlock corrects him. "Not the important bit, anyway. They've already had loads of Christmases with me. This year I do it the way I want."

"And that involves crashing mine, does it?" John asks in annoyance, but the pink tinge of his cheeks contradicts the tone of his voice.

Sherlock smiles grandly. "I'm not going to crash your Christmas, John. I'm going to _enhance_ it."

John blinks at this information and looks as if he wants to say something further, but Sherlock has become distracted by the screen once again. Sherlock's eyes narrow as he leans forward, the glow of the computer bathing his face in white light. He points. “John, what is this number?”

It takes him a moment to answer. “Um. Those are my subscribers,” John explains. “They want notifications when I post a new video.”

“Is that a lot?” Sherlock glances at him. “It doesn’t look like a lot.”

John folds his arms and frowns. “Well, not compared to some people. It doesn’t matter how many I’ve got.”

“But you said the whole point of my coming on is to get you more subscribers,” Sherlock says.

John purses his lips. “Subscribers are nice, but they’re not why I make videos.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

“I do it for me,” John replies. “It’s fun and I feel like I’ve got something to say.”

Sherlock tilts his head, confused. “But no one’s listening.”

John frowns further at that. “It’s personal expression, Sherlock. I could get zero viewers for the rest of my life and I’d still want to make videos. Even if it’s just for myself. Where do you think all the big-name Youtubers came from? They started out just like us and it’s stupid not to try just because it’s scary to compete with them.”

Sherlock just watches him. A smile creeps onto his face. “Well, I like your channel.”

John rolls his eyes. “That’s probably because most of my videos are about you.”

“It’s not my fault your life is boring,” Sherlock points out.

“Boring is definitely not the word I’d use.” John glances at the computer screen. “It looks like we’ve run the clock a bit, everyone, so we’ll sign off. Leave more questions and maybe we'll answer them. And tune in next time for an... interesting surprise." He looks to Sherlock. "You’re still planning to do it, right?”

Sherlock nods. “My design is nearly complete. Phase one testing begins next week.”

“Excellent. Good night, everyone,” John says, and the video cuts out.

 

 

* * *

 

The camera, shaky as if held by hand, is trained on a muddy field of grass lined by dark green trees. The sky is overcast and grey. Bits of frost linger in the overgrown weeds. Out in the middle of the field, an empty plastic liter-sized cola bottle sits upon a small wooden platform. Sherlock, recognizable by the back of his curly hair blowing in the wind, crouches in front of it. He’s wearing a warm wool coat and fiddling with an insulated container.  

“There he is,” says John’s voice from behind the camera. “The mad scientist at work.”

The camera swings to the left. A teenage boy with short brown hair and brown eyes is standing right next to John, wrapped up in a black waterproof jacket and green scarf. When he notices the camera pointed at him, he looks at it and briefly makes a funny face.

“So, Greg, tell us what you think about Sherlock’s little project,” John prompts.

“You already said it, mate. He’s mad,” Greg replies. “Whoever sold him that dry ice should be locked in a dungeon for crimes against humanity.”

John chuckles. “That’s assuming he bought it legally.” The camera shakes a bit as he adjusts it. “Do you think he needs help? He’s been out there for a while.”

“I’m staying right here,” Greg says. “Do you know the explosion radius of a dry ice bomb?”

“No,” John answers.

“I figure it’s at least double the safe distance Sherlock suggested. I’m not getting any closer until that thing’s gone off. I’ve got a livestream tonight.”

The camera flickers and suddenly John is walking up to Sherlock’s crouched form.

“Hey, Sherlock, how’s it going?” John asks as he stops right behind him.

Sherlock glances back at him. He’s wearing safety goggles and thick laboratory gloves. “Just about ready,” he says, grinning widely. “I had to crush the dry ice without burning myself and fit it down the bottleneck. Want to watch me pour in the water?”

“Sure.”

The liter bottle is about half full of white ice. Cloudy gas steams from it, filling the plastic and spouting out the top. Sherlock starts adding clear, warm water from another container. Dense white fog starts pouring from the cola bottle and Sherlock quickly caps it off.

“Run!” he shouts gleefully.

The camera flickers again. Sherlock and John are laughing and jogging toward Greg, who is staring past them with concern and seems to be bracing himself for an explosion.

Sherlock whips around and pulls off his safety goggles, smiling excitedly at John and the camera. “Now we wait,” he says.

John turns the camera and zooms in on the pure white cola bottle on the distant platform. Nothing seems to be happening.

“How long does it take?” Greg asks from out of frame.

“Should be just a few minutes,” Sherlock answers.

The camera flickers once more. It’s on Sherlock now, his face contorted into an expression of annoyed confusion as he stares out into the field. Greg is next to him, looking bored, and glances down at his phone.

“Seventeen minutes,” Greg says.

“It should’ve gone off,” Sherlock mutters. “I don’t understand. It was perfectly constructed. The mix is just right.”

“It happens, mate," Greg says. "We’ll watch it a bit longer and if it doesn’t go off we can leave it overnight."

“No, I need to know what went wrong,” Sherlock retorts. He starts walking out toward the field.

John’s hand shoots out from behind the camera and he blocks Sherlock's progress. “Greg’s right. It’s too dangerous. We should leave it.”

Sherlock pushes past him, slipping on his goggles. “It’ll just take a second. I won’t get too close.”

The camera flickers and Sherlock is back out crouching by the platform.

“Idiot,” John whispers under his breath.

“Hey, look at this,” Greg says from offscreen. John turns the camera and Greg angles the glowing screen of his phone towards him. “Wikipedia says dry ice bombs can take up to thirty minutes to explode.”

“Oh, God,” John says. The camera jostles as John starts running out into the field. “Sherlock!” he yells. “Sherlock! Come back here!”

Sherlock doesn’t glance back, still working on his bomb.

“ _Sherlock_!” John shouts at the top of his lungs.

Finally turning around, Sherlock raises his gloved hands at John as if to say _I can’t see the problem_.

Suddenly, a crack like a gunshot echoes through the field and the bottle is simply _not there_ , replaced by a massive cloud of gas, debris, water, and ice flying at sonic speeds. Sherlock is flung forward onto the ground and almost instantly overtaken by it, and the camera shakes violently.

Greg can be heard shouting in the background and John stumbles to his feet, running with the camera to close the distance to Sherlock.

The cloud is dissipating as he nears Sherlock’s ducked form. “Sherlock?” John calls, worry stark in his voice. “Sherlock, are you all right?”

He’s face down on the ground, arms up and covering the top of his head. A spray of ice glazes the back of Sherlock's coat, protective gloves, and exposed hair. The crystals sparkle brilliantly in the daylight.

John reaches out to touch his hair. A dark brown curl breaks off and comes away in his hand. He holds it up to the camera, perfectly frozen. “Oh my God.”

Sherlock gradually uncovers his head. Shell-shocked, he looks up at John and sees the chunk of hair. “What in the-”

“Sherlock, don’t touch it,” John warns, but it’s too late. Sherlock feels at the back of his head with one gloved hand, and a glittering shower of his frozen hair falls around his shoulders and back. He looks at the pieces on his glove, and his eyes go wide.

“It’s just the outer bits,” John consoles. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

Sherlock scrambles to his feet and checks himself over. “I’m fine,” he says.

John, still holding the frozen curl, starts laughing uncontrollably.

A pout forms on Sherlock’s face. “You’re not allowed to upload this!” he declares angrily. “Not ever! Delete it, John!”

“But you said I could put up your experiments!”

“Not the failed ones!”

“Fine, whatever,” John says, still giggling. “I think we need to find you a barber.”

“That goes for you too,” Sherlock calls. John turns to film Greg cautiously approaching them.

Greg's mouth falls open when he sees the icy remnants of Sherlock's curls all over his coat and the ground. “Holy shit," he says. "Nice hair, Sherlock."

The video cuts out as Greg joins John in another round of laughter.

 

 

* * *

 

John is seated, alone, at his desk. He’s wearing a blue rugby shirt and seems to be preparing to leave for a game. He isn’t smiling.

“Just a quick update,” John says to the camera. “Uh. Yeah. Sherlock, if you see this… please text me back. Um.”

He glances awkwardly around and rubs at the back of his neck. “Yeah, I posted a certain video even though Sherlock told me not to and I guess some of his classmates found it. And it went sort of… viral. Really viral. _Bad_ viral. Like people shouting nasty things at him in the halls level of bad. I took the video down but… it’s sort of too late. He hasn’t spoken to me in... yeah, in about a week.”

John sighs and shakes his head. “Mike’s coming over soon and we’re heading off for our rugby match. But, Sherlock, please, if you see this, I’m trying to apologize to you and you’re making it really difficult. So… yeah. Text me or something. Um. That’s all.”

He reaches out to the camera and shuts it off.

 

 

* * *

 

Greg and John sit side by side at John’s desk. Greg is wearing a Bioshock t-shirt and John has a long-sleeved blue jumper on. They’re both smiling and laughing.

“Hello! I hope you enjoyed the Minecraft video,” John says to the camera. “I think the server’s come along very well since the catastrophe. Do you have some updates for us, Greg?”

“Yeah, I want to thank everyone who pitched in to finish the town around the new fortress,” Greg remarks. “It’s looking absolutely brilliant. I’ll post more videos on my channel about the construction process. I think Mike got some good footage. But we’ve got a new livestream schedule for the weeks to come. We’ll link them in the information section of this video. I hope to see everyone there!”

“I think it looks even better than before,” John comments.

“I agree completely,” Greg says brightly. “I guess the Desolation of Sherlock wasn’t so bad after all.”

John nods, but a dark cast has come over his face.

“Has he still not texted you?” Greg asks.

John swallows. “No.”

Greg shakes his head. “You’ve got to ring him.”

“He hates speaking over the phone,” John points out.

“But he’s your best mate,” Greg prods, “and it’s Christmas soon. Your first one together. You’ve got to ring him.”

John looks depressed. “What if he doesn’t answer?”

“Then you keep calling,” Greg says. “That’s what mates do.”

John glances up at the camera. "Yeah," he sighs, and the video cuts to black.

 

 

* * *

 

It’s very late. John sits in near-darkness wearing a loose t-shirt that looks like it’s meant for sleep. His smartphone lies in front of him on the desk.

“Uh. I don’t know why I’m recording this,” John says. “It just seems necessary, now, I guess. To have the whole thing down on video.” He apprehensively handles the phone. “Sherlock finally responded to my texts and said I could ring him. So that’s what I’m about to do.”

John unlocks his phone and swipes the screen a few times, its glow the brightest thing in the room. He sets is down and faint ringing can be heard from the mobile’s speakers.

There’s an audible click. “You have five minutes, John,” says Sherlock’s electronically-altered voice.

John takes a deep breath and looks to the ceiling. “Listen, I’m sorry I posted that video. I know I said it about a hundred times in my texts but I really want you to know that I’m so sorry.”

He waits, but Sherlock doesn’t answer.

“It’s just hard not to show you off, you know?” John continues, visibly nervous. “Even when things go badly it’s impressive. Even when you’re dead wrong and things _literally_ blow up in your face-”

“This really isn’t helping,” Sherlock interrupts.

“Okay, all right. Point is, I’m sorry, and I don’t know how many times I need to say it to make you believe it.”

He looks hopeful as he silently waits for an answer.

“John…” Sherlock starts.

John straightens in his seat. “Yeah?”

“Are you recording right now?”

John’s eyes go wide and he stares into the camera. “Um… no.”

There’s a pause. “You are, aren’t you? Jesus, John-”

“Wait, don’t-“ John tries, but it’s too late. The phone clicks and loses the connection.

The video flickers. John has his head in his hands, idly tapping his phone against his forehead. He sighs and sets it down, then looks at the camera.

“Well, I guess that’s that,” he says. “He’s in a stroppy mood and won’t pick up.”

But then John’s phone lights up with an incoming call. He immediately slides to answer. It’s still on speakerphone.

“Sherlock?” John says tentatively.

“Listen, record this or don’t, I don’t care,” comes Sherlock’s frustrated voice. “You were supposed to be the one on _my_ side, John. Not handing out ammunition to everyone else.”

“I’m on your side, Sherlock. I’ll always be on your side, whether you want me there or not. I know you like to pretend you're infallible, but everyone does stupid stuff once in a while,” John says. “We’re teenagers. That’s what we do. According to my dad that’s _all_ we do. But for the record, I thought it was pretty cool, what you did. I don’t know anyone else who would even _try_ that.”

There’s a long pause without a reply. “Sherlock, are you there?” John prompts.

“It’s just… this whole ‘friendship’ lark,” Sherlock mutters. “It’s stupid. And I don’t know why I even bother if this is what happens _every_ time.”

John looks extraordinarily hurt. He rests his head in his hands again, leaning over the phone. “Don’t say that, Sherlock. I’m not trying to make your life harder. I want you to be happy, I genuinely do.”

“Yeah? Then you’d be the first,” Sherlock sighs.

“I’ve been where you are, where everyone and everything seems hostile. And let me tell you something, Sherlock Holmes: true friends are a source of strength. They’re what gets you through the bad times, the lonely times,” John says. “Do you really believe I’d intentionally hurt you?”

“No, John,” Sherlock concedes eventually. “I suppose I don’t.”

There’s a long span of silence. John touches the phone, gently, with one hand. “Christmas won’t be the same without you, mate.”

A quiet laugh resonates through the speaker. “All right,” Sherlock says. “See you soon?”

“Yeah. See you soon.”

John ends the call, looks up, and smiles right as the video ends.

 

 

* * *

 

John and Sherlock are in John’s festively decorated bedroom. Strings of Christmas lights are in the background and a tiny fake tree sits on the desk in front of them next to a box of sweets. John has on a red and green striped jumper and Sherlock is wearing a dark button up shirt. His curly hair is noticeably trimmed compared to his last appearance in a John’s videos.

“Happy Christmas, everyone!” John says cheerfully.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Sherlock points out, glancing at his friend.

“And as you can see,” John continues, “Sherlock is back with us. We’re going to have a bit of a celebration here. We’ve got gifts and fairy lights and even this lovely tree, which I’m sure Sherlock obtained in an entirely ethical manner.”

Sherlock grins proudly. “If by ethical you mean ‘stole it from Mycroft’, then certainly.”

“I’ve also brought this,” John says, producing a shiny red Christmas cracker and setting it on the desk. “First of the season. Cheers, mate.”

They take up either end. "Ready?" John asks. Sherlock nods, and John starts counting. "One, two, _three_!"

They yank it apart with a spectacular _snap._ Sherlock comes away with the larger piece and he begins pulling out the contents.

"Dull," he decides, tossing a small slip of paper to John and taking up a small bag of plastic parts.

“Here's the joke," John says as he unfolds the paper. "What do you get if Santa goes down the chimney when a fire is lit?”

Sherlock rips open the bag and dumps the toys on the desk. “The premise is flawed. Santa isn’t even-”

“It’s a joke, Sherlock,” John interjects. “Just ignore the laws of the universe for two seconds.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Okay. What do you get if Santa goes down the chimney when a fire is lit?”

“ _Krisp_ Kringle,” John reads.

A moment of silence passes as they stare at one another.

“That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Sherlock says finally.

John starts giggling. “It is, isn’t it?”

“He’d asphyxiate long before he reached the fire, John.”

John laughs even harder, and Sherlock watches him curiously for a moment before chuckling alongside him.

The camera flickers. Sherlock is suddenly wearing a pink paper crown on his head and eating a piece of chocolate. A small toy aeroplane has been assembled out of the provided parts and now sits, propeller forward, on the removed lid of the sweets box. Sherlock watches John handle a Christmas present wrapped in silvery paper.

"This is for you," John says.

Sherlock swallows the last of his chocolate and takes it from John. He quickly tears it open and pulls out a lovely long blue scarf.

"I figure you could use an extra layer of buffering," John explains, sounding a bit nervous. "You know, for the next explosion."

Sherlock examines it. "I don't wear scarves," he says. John appears crestfallen for one terrible moment until Sherlock loops it loosely around his neck and smiles. "But I think I will, now. It's perfect. Thank you, John. Now open yours."

John's present is a bit larger and wrapped in a rich shade of red. He feverishly rips it open and finds a thick jumper colored with an alarming geometric pattern of blues, whites, and reds.  

"Oh my God," John says, cringing. He looks up at Sherlock. "Where on earth did you find this?"

Sherlock's pleased expression is replaced by a scowl. "At a shop, you twit."

"A shop meant for humans?"

"Of course! Who else would it be for? I finally discovered where you buy all those despicable jumpers. I got one to add to the collection."

"There's a line, Sherlock," John says, shaking his head in dismay. "There's a very fine line between good taste and bad."

"Have I crossed it?"

"As with everything, you've demolished it."

"Say what you will, but I think you'd look rather dashing in it," he replies offhandedly, fishing out another chocolate from the box.

"Fantastic. I'll repel ever other member of our species, but as long as _you_ think..." John trails off and his eyes go wide. He's found a gift receipt in the bottom of the package. "Sherlock, this says you bought it on the 19th of December."

"So?" Sherlock asks, finishing off his chocolate and sweeping the crumbs off the desk.

"You weren't speaking to me on the 19th of December," John says. "A week earlier you'd said you never wanted to talk to me again."

Sherlock shrugs. "Is that a problem?"

John crumples the gift receipt in his hand. He's got an odd look in his eyes. "No," he says. "No, it's not a problem at all. Thank you. I love it."

"Chocolate?" Sherlock offers, pushing the box toward John.

"Don't mind if I do."

John takes a sweet and the video cuts to black.

 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock is in frame. It's late and besides the glow of the computer screen, the fairy lights are the only source of light in the room. Behind Sherlock a person is curled up on John’s bed with a pillow smothering their head as if trying to block out the world. They’re wearing a horrific blue, white, and red Christmas jumper.

"Hello," Sherlock says to the camera. “I suppose it falls to me to do this since John is currently indisposed. Apparently, he's upset that Doctor Who--”

“He’s not Doctor Who, he’s _the Doctor_!” John shouts, his voice muffled by the pillow.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “John is upset that the Doctor is dead--”

“ _Regenerated_ ," John says. He flings the pillow at Sherlock. It hits his chair and falls ineffectually to the floor. "Cor, you’ve seen every episode of the new series. Get your facts right, you berk!”

Sherlock turns in his seat to look back at him. “I may have watched them, but I deleted a majority of the episodes almost immediately.”

“I don’t know why I bother giving you a proper education if you’re just going to delete it all.”

Glancing at the camera again, Sherlock sighs. “Anyway. He’s gone and John’s upset. Which is stupid, because he’s not gone. He went all glowy and turned into somebody else.”

“It’s not the _same_ ,” John moans, clearly in terrible agony.

“That’s what you said the last time this happened,” Sherlock observes.

“I thought you deleted it!”

“I delete the episodes, John, not your reaction to them.”

John sits up on his bed with a frown. His hair is sticking up and his jumper is twisted around. "This is the worst Christmas _ever_."

"Really? I've quite enjoyed it," Sherlock replies.

John straightens his jumper and glances down at it. "I suppose it hasn't been entirely terrible. Did they really have to kill him on Christmas, though?"

Sherlock laughs to himself and turns to the camera. “Happy Christmas, everyone, from John and I."

"And have a happy New Year!” John appends. They both wave and smile, and the video ends.

**Author's Note:**

> [This is the museum](http://www.atlasobscura.com/places/hunterian-museum) John uses to bribe Sherlock (caution: semi-graphic biological images). I'm sure they'd both love it there.
> 
> John’s opinions on Hogwarts houses do not reflect my own. Hufflepuffs, don't listen to the haters. They're just jealous because their common room isn't next to the kitchens.


End file.
